Supernovae and Black Holes
by starwanker
Summary: When Popstar is threatened by a war with NME, how will the nation react? A war seasoned Knight, infant Star Warrior, and horribly misguided jester each have their own ideas on how to survive. Rated for some harsh language and violence.
1. Skippable Foreward

Cover image, Galactic Nova-Colored, courtesy of atoms2ashes on DeviantArt.

* * *

~A note from management.

This is an AU fic, which follows the anime more so than any other verse. There are many elements of all Kirby games present, however, but to avoid any confusion, this isn't linked to any one canon specifically. I guess you could say I've mixed KSSU with a touch of Crystal Shards and Hoshi No Kaabii, just for the sake of using my 'artistic liberties'. I probably borrowed a slew of other characters from different games, too…

Some OC characters have been added; they may not be recognized right away, but bear with me! Even some canons may seem a wee bit OOC. I've tried to avoid messing with the original personalities of characters, but with such odd ones like Galacta, Marx, or Meta Knight, it's sort of unavoidable. Hell even Kirby's hard to write for.

Since in both the TV show and the games there seems to be a lack of modern day 'technology', such as cars or computers (save starships and televisions…) I've decided to make the setting somewhat 'steam punk', because really, who doesn't love steam punk?

Also, it's probably pretty important to realize this early on, this takes place on one planet. All planets and entities of the games, such as Popstar, Floria, and even Nightmare have been made into their own nations. (H)NME now stands for Holy Nightmare Empire (like HRE, the Holy Roman Empire, hehe, clever, right? * Shot*)

Because why would a steam punk story have interstellar travel? I mean really.

And, lastly, for those who are only familiar with the dubbed anime, I'm using the Japanese names for characters like Memu (Ladylike), Fumu (Tiff), Bun (Tuff), etc. I believe the only exceptions are for Kirby (Kaabii) and Parm (Pamu). Mainly because I like the way 'Parm' sounds.

And lastly-lastly, shout out to DoceoPercepto. Without having read some awesome fics like "There Are Worlds Beyond This One" or "Leech", or hearing equally awesome advice, I'd have never gotten the drive to write this.

So, check out their stuff, if you haven't already! Quality stuff.

TL;DR, Steampunkish mix of KSSU, CS, and anime, bluh, bluh, bluh.

Enjoy!

P.S Reviews are awesome!


	2. Chapter One: Game Theory

Jacks was a very boring game.

There was only so much one could do with a handful of spikes and a single, bouncy ball. Bounce it. Pick up some stuff. Bounce it again. Pick up some more stuff. That was basically the premise of every strategy available for gameplay.

_'Bounce, bounce, bounce, win.' _

The ball itself was probably worth more in terms of 'fun' than all of the little metal trinkets combined.

Kicking them aside, Marx stomped on the red ball, stopping it from bouncing away.

He had won eight consecutive times. Considering his body type, that was quite a feat.

Jacks, Marx learned, was also very difficult to play properly when one didn't posses all the required pieces. The ball, the 'jacks', and lastly, the quintessential utensils with which to capture the titular game pieces; hands. Marx screwed his face up, pouting as he stared down at the taunting little thing. It was the same color red as his father's bowtie, and Marx didn't like that one bit.

_'What a stupid game,'_ Marx thought to himself, scowling towards his father's office. _'At least put your own son's physical needs into consideration when being such a cheapskate._'

Turning back to the scattered jacks and little red bouncy ball, the purple puffball let out a tired sigh.

Jacks was a very boring game indeed.

Of course, Marx's father was a very boring man.

A serious, secluded, boring man.

Rising from his seat upon the polished wood floors, Marx walked towards the hallway. The living room and kitchen were the only decorated rooms in the small, narrow house. And of course, then there was the office, but Marx had never been allowed in there, so he could only guess as to what it looked like.

The hallways, bathroom, guestroom, and even Marx's own room were scarcely furnished and bore bare floors. In the winter, Marx's father would break out the sheepskin rug and drape it across the cold concrete to help keep the warmth in.

It didn't help much.

Looking up, Marx followed the cracks in the ceiling, which formed patterns much akin to hands, sprawling and reaching towards the dark of the corridor allowing his gaze zig and zag to and fro up to the end of the hallway. A dark, greenish door mark the edge of the 'free' space, and the beginning of the 'forbidden zone.

His stared fixed on the door, knotty and wise with age.

It vaguely reminded him of a captain's cabin in a ship.

Of course, captains were in the same league as pirates, and both of those were a vastly different league as a political advisor. For King Dedede, to boot.

Marx narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips tight. Just thinking of the King made his face hot. Well, that wasn't saying much, considering that almost every person Marx knew caused some sort of physical manifestation of anger for the puffball.

Even for an eleven year old, Marx was well versed in the ongoing political endeavors of his father, and not because they were dinner table discussions. No, his father rarely ever spoke of his work. He rarely ever really spoke, anyhow.

Marx, unlike other children his age (and many adults, as far as he was aware of) knew what was going on in the world. He scanned newspapers often, tuned in on radio broadcasts when his time permitted (playing on his prized balance ball outranked political babble any day of the week), paid close attention to the idle chat and small talk of the few adults around him. He had read all of the books in the house, the vast majority of which were concerned with either military strategy, government, or history.

Marx was smart. Moreover, he was observant, and endlessly curious. Perhaps a bit conniving at times, but ever adaptable.

He took active interest in questions; taking things apart at the source in search of answers. Whether it was a clock, a bicycle, or, even the occasional pet goldfish, Marx enjoyed 'dissecting' the world around him.

He didn't like not knowing things. Not one bit.

But, he knew his limits.

A persisting gaze on the massive barrier before him, Marx tentatively took a step forward. He wouldn't dare enter. Knocking was a bit bold. A simple announcement would do, in this case.

"Dad, I'm gonna go play with Chiyo."

Silence.

Marx waited, curving his gaze towards an aged picture of himself and his father in front of an ice-cream vendor on a rainy day, hanging loosely on the wall. Neither were smiling.

"What about your new toy."

Marx winced. He had no problem being truthful; he actually enjoyed putting people in their place from time to time (i.e. being rude). But when being candid hampered his own plans, well, that was another story. And for some odd reason, his father's voice sounded much more pleasant the usual grumbles and mumbles Marx received. It was almost 'nice' of him to ask about the jacks.

Ignoring this, Marx looked down to his shoes, fighting to think of a kind enough answer.

"It's a nice day out. I'll play with them when I get home."

More silence.

"And when will that be?"

"Before supper."

"Before sundown."

Frowning further, Marx hesitated before giving in. It wasn't in him to submit, but he desperately wanted to get out of the house.

"Okay." It wouldn't have been a bad deal had it been summer, but it was late November. Sundown was early. Looking outside, Marx estimated how much time he would be allotted. Three and a half hours, maybe.

Two steps down the hallway and,

"Don't forget to bundle up. It's chilly out."

Marxe rolled his eyes. _'It's at least 20 degrees outside, it most certainly not chilly out.'_ he thought in a mocking tone. Marx was right, however. Stepping outside, it was cloudy, but a rather pleasant day for late November, as it was most of the year in Dreamland.

_'Such a shut-in he doesn't even know planet he lives on.'_

The road to town was rather deserted, giving Marx some much needed down time as he traveled along the cobbled streets. It wasn't chilly, but it wasn't as warm as it could have been either, and the sky threatened rainfall. The gloominess was likely the reason for the empty streets. Marx liked it that way. The skinny townhouses were so tightly packed together, and so tiny inside, that the residents usually carried on their day outside of their homes. There was always noise, always hustle and bustle. But today, nothing. For the average Dreamland resident, this would be ominous, perhaps a cause for alarm, but Marx wasn't average, not by any means.

Because of his, 'deviance', Marx didn't have many friends. It wasn't entirely his fault though. His father's reputation proceed him and often drove away the parents of prospective playmates, and thus the playmates themselves. 'Chiyo', Marx's befriend, didn't exist. He had at one point, but moved away, leaving Marx utterly alone. _'I don't care, though.'_ He knew he was likeable. He was smart. Funny, hilarious even. _'A gas._' He could balance on his ball, '_with one foot, even.'_ He could name all seventy-eight states of Popstar, their capitols, providences, and representatives. He could read French. '_Not speak it, but hey, beggars can't be choosers.'_

Marx stopped in his tracks, catching the sight of a puddle. He neared it, peering at his reflection from a distance.

"I'm likeable," he murmured, as if arguing with someone.

Taking a step closer, his reflection stared back at him.

One red iris, one purple. A red and purple jester hat of opposing sides, and a blue and red bow tie.

These things begged to differ.

Insulted by the betrayal, Marx kicked the puddle of water, sending a splash of water over his head, and consequently drenching him.

He sighed. _'That was stupid.'_

One last, wary glance at the remaining pool, rippling in the mud.

"I'm not crazy," he whispered.

He stepped back, frowning. He wasn't crazy. He liked his hat. He liked his bowtie. His eyes were a different matter, but one that couldn't be helped. He didn't see the point in angsting in something that couldn't be changed, after all.

Other children weren't too fond of them, though. It wasn't so much the hat, or the bowtie, or the eyes even. It was the combination, with his father's bad name and his own cockiness added.

Shaking the self-loathing from his thoughts, Marx continued on down the road towards town, a pensive look on his face.

Once in town, the small puffball made his way towards the first newsstand he could spot. The vendor smiled briefly, before realizing whom he was smiling at. Friendliness revoked, the vendor gave a forced cough before looking down at the magazine he held, suddenly absorbed with it.

Marx ignored him, paying closer attention to the headlines as he scanned different publications.

"Holy Nightmare Empire Claims a New Victim: Cavius Crushed by Colossal Empire"

_'Nothing new.'_

"Indecisiveness Loses GSA Conquered Territory"

_'Typical bias.'_

"Ripple Braces itself for Impact"

Interested, Marx nudged the paper from its stand so he could read more.

"The formerly neutral Queen Ripple stated in a press conference with GSA representative Sasuke Amora that the nations defenses were being mobilized in preparation for attack, Thursday, November 22nd at 2:00 pm.

The Queen has not yet made word upon her stance with the GSA, however. The army has lost over 70% of their territories since the start of the war, and with dwindling resources, aid from the GSA is unlikely.

Ever hopeful, Queen Ripple stated that the treaty made with the Holy Nightmare Empire early on in the war still stands. No word has been heard from NME, other than the humming drum of airships and war tankers.

'Imminent attack is to be anticipated' said Blade Knight, outside the Ripple Embassy in Dreamland the day of the news conference-"

"Hey kid, you gonna stand around and mooch all day or are you gonna buy something?" A rough, gravely voice broke Marx from his thoughts.

"Huh?"

"The sign says no loitering." The vendor smacked his cane against a small, rusty sign hanging from his cash register. "Buy something or leave."

"Fine." Marx said, shaking his hat off his head and pulling out a small, velvet purse. A monogrammed M was etched in the middle, a rich dandelion standing against the burgundy of the pouch. Pulling the strings loose with his teeth, Marx kicked the coin purse towards the vendor.

He reached his fat, ruddy hand in, pulling a handful of gold coins out.

"How much does the paper cost!?"

The vendor ignored Marx's protest and pulled a newspaper from its place, tossing the bundle towards him. Of course, with no hands to catch with, the newspapers fell to the ground in a heap. Marx leapt, avoiding the mess, and stared up at the man, a frown etched across his entire face.

"Hello? Give me my change!" Marx growled.

"You got your paper, you spoiled brat. Go home to your daddy, kid."

Marx was silent, his blood boiling as he stared at the fat, greedy man before him. Unfazed, the vendor began to laugh, his rounded face turning red as he bellowed out a hearty cackle.

He had to tear himself from glaring. Quietly gathering his paper and coins, Marx organized everything into his hat before turning back to the man with a sickly, sweet smile.

Seeing the razor sharp grin, the man's laughter abruptly stopped.

"Didn't you hear me, you little freak! I said get out of here. All you ever do is come down here and read my papers for free! I'm taking what you owe an' I don't want no trouble from you or your father!"

"Well let's see here, sir. You don't want any trouble?" Marx neared the now silent man, his huge smile growing into a menacing grimace. He savored the look on the man's face. His fangs usually had that effect on people.

"No. Now leave; you're scaring off other customers."

"I'm not leaving until you give me my money."

The vendor curled his lip, his hands subconsciously tightening around the seven coins he clutched.

"And just what are you gonna do about it, huh? You can stand here all day, but you ain't getting nothing out of me, Marx." he added, with a hint of a snarl.

Marx returned the gesture in full force, charging forward and latching onto the man's plump ankle.

Ignoring the feeling of a rolled up newspaper smacking his back, Marx tightened his grip, digging his teeth through pant leg and sock and into sordid flesh. The vendor let out a howl, kicking his feet and staggering backwards, right into his own stand.

They landed with a clatter, newspapers showering them as the two struggled with one another, Marx still latched onto the man's leg, and the latter desperately trying to get a hold on the little, purple puffball.

"Get off me you crazy son of a-"

The word 'crazy' seemed to set off some sort of primal instinct in Marx. Letting go of the leg, Marx went straight for the jugular.

In a vain attempt to ward his assailant off, the man swatted at Marx, his arm becoming the new target.

"Hey!"

Marx ignored the shocked gasps and screams. His only thought was where to sink his teeth next.

"Get off him!" A sudden set of cold, strong hands brought him out of his stupor, and finally, Marx relented. He was roughly pulled off the man and thrown to the ground.

A small crowd had formed around the fight, and while they were distracted with helping the vendor up, Marx quickly collected his goods (as well as some of the vendor's dropped coins and a few loose newspapers), and ran.

They chased him, but only for a short while. It was mostly for show, he assumed. All part of the 'run-you-out-of-town' gimmick angry mobs seemed so fond of. Given his head start and small size, Marx was out of sight in no time. Luckily, the road home was still fairly empty, giving Marx time to cool down before returning to his house.

Fight aside; he had made out pretty good. Free newspapers, money earned, rather than lost, and in his humble opinion, he had won.

"Stupid idiots." he mumbled to himself, turning right down onto his own street. "I was being harassed, cheated, almost robbed, and they blamed me!" Stopping to a halt, Marx cocked his head as he looked upon his porch with confusion. Somewhere sandwiched between a row of colorful, cozy townhouses, sat his own. A lanky, creaky Victorian styled house with olive green shingles and mope grey shutters. Outside the townhouse sat his father, sitting in a creaky rocking chair and smoking a pipe. Looking skyward, Marx hesitantly checked to make sure the sun was up. Sure enough, it was.

_'Didn't think I was gone that long.'_

Curious rather than nervous, Marx walked up to the steps.

"Um, hey."

"Huh?", roused from his thousand-yard stare, Marx's father looked down to his son. "Oh, hello, Marx. I didn't see you there. Home already?"

"Yep, Chiyo wasn't feeling well."

"Hmm." A dismissive nod was all he gave. An incredibly awkward silence followed.

"So...what are you doing?" Marx asked. It was rare, no, bizarre, to see his father sitting outside. Relaxing. He even seemed to be enjoying himself. _'Something's not right._'

"I'm enjoying the nice day, what does it look like?"

Marx couldn't help but do a roundabout. It was gloomy, deserted, and a slight wind picked up a chill from the north. His father certainly wasn't the cheery, sunny-day type, but the weather was anything but enjoyable.

"Uh, yeah, I can see that."

"What've you got there?" The Smirror asked, pointing towards the lumpy jester hat sitting atop his son's head.

"Nothing."

"No, really, what is that? Did you buy something?" _'This is wrong._ _A conversation?'_ This really wasn't supposed to happen. He didn't like this. Not one bit.

Marx tried to gulp away the dry feeling in his mouth. Usually, his father didn't pay him two cents. Generic questions like 'how was your day' or 'anything I can do for you, Marxy' were always met with a curt nod, regardless of the response.

"Newspapers." Marx answered, swallowing his slight discomfort.

"The paper? You read the paper?" His father placed his pipe down beside the rocking chair and leaned forward, pulling a sheet from Marx's hat. "How old are you, eight?"

"Eleven." Marx answered in deadpan.

"What's an eleven year old doing reading the, the Galactic News Press of all things?" shaking out the paper, Marx's father scowled as he ran his eyes over the familiar stories.

"What's wrong with the Galactic News Press?"

"What's wrong with it? It's a load of rubbish is what it is! Now, tell me son, why are you reading any sort of newspaper in the first place?"

"Is there something wrong with that, dad?" Marx asked, not without a touch of venom. _'How's it his business anyway?_'

"Well, you're eleven. I don't know any children from two to twenty, even, that're interested in anything remotely news related. Not in this town, at least. And besides, you've got me, if you've any questions. These things pretty much reiterate my job, anyways." He said, smacking the paper with one hand.

Holding back a slew of biting, nasty remarks, Marx simply stared. He even felt his eye twitch a bit, but he played it off as blinking. His father's earnest, questioning stare persisted, sickeningly wholesome in its sincerity.

_'Is he really that stupid?'_ Marx couldn't help but let a sarcastic smirk slide over his face. He had never really been pressed about his 'age uncharacteristic' interests before (not really having anyone to even notice them in the first place.) His pride in such was entirely his own, but now, with his father's obvious surprise, he felt it swell.

"I like to know what's going on, with the war especially. I'm not stupid. Besides, half the time you're working or away on some business trip, so I never really get to ask you about any of it." Perhaps the guilt was a bit gratuitous, but it was second nature to Marx to take advantage of any outlying weakness, emotion or otherwise.

The effect was immediate. The incredulous, impressed smile faded as his face fell. Marx almost regretted his words.

"Oh, well," Marx's father looked away from his son, searching for words, "well, I'm not busy now, if you wish to talk."

That certainly caught Marx off guard. In all of his imagined arguments with his father, none of them ever started, or ended, with him being abashed, friendly, even. _'I can't be that bad at reading people?'_ Marx wondered. He always assumed he had his old man pegged.

The shock was obvious on his face, as his father seemed to wilt even further. He pulled up his coat, covering his face in the trademark look of any given Smirror.

Marx shook himself out of his reverie, hoping his hesitation hadn't given too much away. Guilt or no guilt, he still had a game to play.

His father pulled up a stool he had been using as a footrest and patted the seat.

"Here, come sit with me."

Marx remembered spending quality time with him, sure. Awkward, forced smile, throat clearing quality time. Not much was ever spoken, as both were busy with being socially...well, socially awkward. Marx spent most of his free time thinking cynical thoughts; 'father son quality time' was no different. His father likewise often found himself lost in a trance, with or without Marx around to rouse him from his perpetual internal monologue. Besides, his father had never shown any interest in being an active part of Marx's life. Why should Marx try and be part of his?

Marx reluctantly walked towards the stool, his unease growing by the moment. It wasn't so much the thought of talking with his dad that scared him, it was the fact that there was a reason to. Abnormal behavior, he had learned, ALWAYS had a cause. _'So why's he so happy all of a sudden?'_

"So, you like current events? War?" His father asked, picking his pipe back up from the floor.

"Foreign affairs." Marx corrected.

"Ah, politics, my realm of expertise. So what exactly are you interested in?"

Marx thought, biting his lip. Was this an interview?

"The GSA." he answered, producing an odd look from his father. Before he could follow up with more questions, Marx shook his head, "The GSA's failure, to be more exact." This time around, his response begot a chuckle.

"Yep, me too. But what's there to be confused about? With a wishy washy leader like Sir Arthur, their lack of success is quite obvious if you ask me. He spends donated money, allied money, _taxpayer's money_ on disaster aid and repairing the infrastructure of war bitten cities, what do you expect? The army's morale is almost as low as the public opinion, and rightfully so. There's no money, no food, no ammo, no progress. All of it died along with the Star Warriors." Marx's eyes widened at this. The Star Warriors had always caught his intrigue, despite himself.

"More and more die every day, soldiers and citizens alike, while that pompous bastard sits back in his throne, with his thumbs firmly planted right up his own ass."

Marx's eyes widened again, this time in surprise, and for a moment his father blushed, worried that in slip of resentment, his rant had offended.

Hysterical laughter proved otherwise, and Marx could only smile up at his father, happy to have found common ground. Even if it was hatred and criticism.

"Pardon my French, son, but you did ask," he answered, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk.

"I thought you were pro-GSA, though?"

"Is that how the papers make me out? No wonder, bunch of two bit, yellow journalists," his thoughts pintered off into mumbles, before a self-conscious cough from Marx brought him back. Clearing his throat, he continued, "Pro-war, son, pro-war. There's a big difference. I'm not fond of inaction, as you know, and Popstar's current neutrality, much like Ripple's, will only end with the inevitable; defeat. Without an army, NME will surely overtake us. Really the only logical thing to do at this point is submit and join their forces."

"Do you think we will? Is that what you want?"

"Two days ago I would have scoffed at the idea. Dedede and Amelia are far too proud, and lack backbone, frankly. But the good Sir Meta Knight has been a very decisive factor in convincing Dedede's court to hear my proposal. As far as an alliance with the GSA goes, I couldn't say for sure. But, we're making leeway, son. So long as Popstar opens its eyes, I'll have made a difference." The Smirror leaned back, crossing his legs and taking a draw from his pipe. Marx guessed the 'leeway' was the reason behind the celebratory venture outside.

"Becoming part of the NME's growing empire is the last thing I want. Allies are shown much better treatment than conquered territories, but that is a lifestyle I certainly do not wish to experience." He shuddered visibly before continuing, "But I'm just a cabinet advisor. Leave it to Dedede to take Ebraum's advice over mine. He's nothing but a lackey, a yes-man. No education, just born with a silver spoon in his mouth. If it wasn't for Meta Knight's spotless record and brown nosing, I'd have never made it through the thick heads that make up Dedede's lackies." Marx's father spat, pounding his fist on his knee as Marx flinched.

'_So far so good.'_ It was mostly a one sided conversation, but an _informative_ conversation nonetheless. Feeling reckless, Marx decided to try a different topic. As enthusiastic as he was about hating on the GSA, he wasn't sure if he could keep up his facade. The newspapers and radio never mentioned anything about NME territories, other than their 'dreaded fate' and 'doomed residents', nor about Parm Ebraum's sway over King Dedede, and his apparent lack of education. Never one to swallow his pride, Marx thought it best to do further research before coming back to his father for more.

Flipping his hat off, Marx emptied the contents, taking time to kick the now useless newspapers aside and collect his money.

"Where'd you get all those coins?" his father asked, awakened from his rambling.

"I saved them."

"From allowance?"

"Yep." Marx said, proudly.

"Hmm."

"Mmhmm."

There was that silence again. Marx sat back in his seat and looked to his father expectantly. His eyes were already glazed over, his mind clearly some place else as he sucked on his pipe.

Panicking a bit, Marx was quick to think up something else to talk about.

"So, what about NME, why is it so strong?"

"Hmm, what?" That had done it, more talk of war. Eyes suddenly afire, Marx's father sat up straight and took a long, thoughtful puff.

"Oh, the Holy Nightmare Empire? It's simple. They're secret is brute force. Action. Plain as that." He said. After a moment of thinking and chin rubbing, he added, "And unity. All the lands, all the people, natives, allies, and slaves work together. They're forced too. The economy is fed by war, there's jobs, jobs that feed the machine, the war machine. There's money, plenty of it. The nation had planned on it. Twenty years before the war, NME began to mount the trading routes. The pirates took them over, rather. The bastards dominated it within a decade. Spices, precious metals, lumber, luxury goods, silks and fabrics of every kind, they had it. What they didn't have, they simply took. NME's always held a militant mindset and culture.

"The booming economy promoted growth, but it was still miniscule in comparison to Floria or Popstar, even. But, as the years passed, their population grew, as did their industry. I'm sure they've taught you about the Industrial Revolution in school?" Looking to the sky, the Smirror pointed towards a far off yellow gleam in the sky. Marx nodded slowly, squinting up to see the dot. "The invention of the steam engine. Did they teach you that it was first discovered in Delios?"

"No."

"The capitol of NME. Jarvis, the inventor, patented the engine and sold it to other countries. Just about every modern commodity you know comes from the Holy Empire."

Marx continued to follow the shining dot. It dipped behind a cloud, revealing a black silhouette of a elliptical balloon with giant propellers.

"They sold everything to everyone else?"

"Essentially. Of course, some scientists were able to deduce that all subsequent inventions were simply variations of the steam engine, or fancy engines with fancy add ons. Even so, NME didn't just top the world's economy. They practically ruled it. Their industry evolved into a coal burning, smoke belching monster. Such a small nation couldn't contain it all. Soon, environmental degradation took its toll, and the need for new lands arose. They say necessity is the mother of invention, and sure enough, NME began to pump out new technologies; weapons. Of every kind. Biological, chemical, you name it. That's been their specialty ever since. They've been prepared for war from the start. It's natural to them." He chuckled, sounding almost lustful in his obvious awe. "Those people are savages, smart savages. Their weaponry has only evolved since then. New guns, tanks, airships are being created day-by-day, new demon beasts. With a never-ending supply of soldiers, not even the Star Warriors can defeat them. They just keep coming. There's an excess, nay, a plethora of people..." Marx watched in mild interest as his father become more and more animated, using his hands to gesture at the seemingly obscene power of NME.

"And so you think Ripple'll lose?" Marx asked, interrupting.

"Lose? They've only now begun to mobilize a defense. There's no offense. The GSA can only offer written word of an alliance, no actual support since Ripple hasn't even asked for assistance. Even if they the Fairy Queen has formed an alliance, I doubt Sir Arthur could muster up anything special." He explained, his voice picking up momentum as he went on. "They were in the same boat we're in; happy and secluded; ignorant to the power of the oncoming foe. Being an isolationist nation won't save them from NME, nor will being surrounded by an ocean. They've used their comforts as a defense against the ugly world out there, and now they're reaping the consequences. Holding off the enemy can only last for so long, especially when the enemy is NME. Ripple will fall. I'd give them a month, not even."

Marx was silent. As much as he liked talking about the war, it was scary. Only now did he realize the horror awaiting them.

Popstar's media downplayed it. Not only was the continent geographically a sitting duck (virtually a giant island, just like Ripple), but _moreover_, the leaders and people were unprepared. They had grown confident in their isolation, arrogant in their neutrality. Dedede was an idiot as well. That certainly didn't help.

NME was coming. They would overpower Popstar in a heartbeat. Holy Nightmare would win. Popstar would lose, and consequently, die.

They would die.

Become enslaved, perhaps, but most likely die horrible, fiery deaths.

Marx gulped. He really didn't know anything about the war; it was hitting him like a ton of bricks.

It took him a moment to notice the silence. His father had stopped talking. Looking up, Marx was surprised to see the Smirror regarding him with concern.

"Are you okay? You're suddenly so quiet. And you look like you've seen a ghost."

It took Marx a minute to find his voice.

What came out wasn't entirely what he had planned, as most of his words were carefully picked.

"Are we gonna die?"

His father stalled, eyeing Marx from his peripherals. He lowered the pipe from behind his coat collar and turned to fully face his son.

"Now Marxy, that's a bit of an extreme assumption, isn't it dear?" The Smirror said in a voice that Marx couldn't discern as soothing or condescending.

"It's not an assumption, it's a question." He uttered, his voice cracking somewhat in a vain attempt to swill his fear.

"No, we won't die. And that's not an assumption." This time, Marx determined it was supposed to be soothing.

"How do you know?"

"Well, let's look at the facts. Popstar is neutral, and plans to stay that way, until further notice. We will fall, without a doubt if Dedede does not follow my advice, and the residents stupid or unfortunate enough to stay will be taken as slaves. Some may die, yes, but most will be subjected to meager, low income housing, forced minimum wage labor with substandard working conditions, acid rain erosion to their spice gardens and decorative, window sill flowers, smog induced asthma, and a factory replacing their pristine views of the beach. That isn't a death sentence, Marx, that's simply our worst-case scenario.

"Besides, you and I would be long gone before then. Don't think I haven't thought up a back up plan. That shouldn't be necessary, however; with Meta Knight on my side, we should be able to break through the rest of the cabinet before next Thursday. I've been working on them for three years. Once I get clearance to present my case to Dedede, we'll have made enough leeway to scare the King onto our side via majority rule, and the threat of dethronement. Death is not in the stars, for us, son."

Sitting back, the Smirror turned to his son, who similarly sat in silence.

"Plan? What plan?" He asked, still disturbed by the thought of his home plant becoming enslaved. Perhaps Marx wasn't the most empathetic person in the world, but the idea of everyone he knew becoming salt mine slaves almost angered him. He hated most people, mainly because they hated him; they drew first blood, but while vengeful, malicious, and even sadistic, Marx didn't wish that fate on Popstar, no matter how mild the sentence. It was home. They were his people.

"We'd leave to Floria first, to gain bearings. I have some contacts there that could get us a boat to Hotbeat. We'd wait there for some time, until NME focused its energy in over taking Shiver, and take a plane straight to the Nightmare Republic. They openly accept defectors, and security away from the front is much less rigid. I hear that the back of NME's territory is already reconstructed, and relatively untouched by the war. The quality of life there is quite suitable."

Marx simply nodded, imagining Popstar blanketed in a red, thick fog, hot and heavy like the smell of molten copper. He pictured countless rows of citizens, each one dressed in prison rags. The seemingly endless streaks of grey lead to mammoth factories that coughed out a black velvet into the sky, churning and burning like greasy, mechanical innards.

Shaking himself out of the nightmarish vision, Marx quiet excused himself to go play inside.

His father watched with subdued, paternal concern, thanking Marx for the conversation. Marx just nodded again.

He sat in front of his jacks with a heavy heart, something Marx wasn't entirely used to. He bounced the ball once. Two jacks were captured.

_'So what if NME comes here. Dad says it'll happen anyways.'_

He bounced the ball again.

Three more jacks.

_'The question is, will we fight back? We'll lose for sure if we don't. But it wont even matter to me if I won't be here.'_

This time, the ball hit a jack. It ricocheted off, landing flat behind a bookshelf.

All the game pieces were scooped to the side with a shoe.

_'And if we do fight back, then what? How long will we last? Will we side with the GSA? We have to, probably because of Meta Knight.'_

Marx decided he had lost his first game of jacks.

_'So we fight. Last for a year, maybe, if they ever get around to putting an army together. And like Cavius, we'll fall. It all ends the same; Popstar doomed.'_

He looked down to the small, jagged pieces of metal, each one resembling a tiny mine.

He would have to ask his father to retrieve the ball later. Reaching behind tight spaces wasn't Marx's specialty.

_'And we, dad and I, escaping to NME. That's the plan. We live. They die.'_

Maybe there was no winning with jacks.

Maybe that's what made it fun. Marx had just been missing the point.

Maybe jacks wasn't so boring after all.


	3. Chapter Two: On the Clock

So this chapter may or may not be slow, but I'm trying to set up a sort of comprehensible back story about the war, Meta Knight's 'mysterious' past, and Marx and his father's importance in all this. Hopefully I've accomplished my goal of metaphorically whetting your metaphorical whistle, but if not I promise excitement next chapter! There'll be fluff! Explosions! Romance and international intrigue! You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll- *shot*

Okay enough of that nonsense. Kirby'll come in next chapter, I promise ya!

* * *

Only the rhythmic clash of hammers against hot iron and hot steel could be heard from the entrance hall of the forge. The ever present buzz of the factory wide furnace faded into white noise as Meta Knight drummed his fingers against the rail way.

A hollow 'ding' indicated that the elevator had arrived, catching his attention. The rusty cast iron gates slid open, and Meta Knight stepped inside a very questionable looking basket. The gates slid close, the chime sounded once more, and down he went.

The light faded as his descent continued, the air becoming thicker and thicker until it was as turgid as a wet, Vellore blanket. Meta Knight seethed in a breath of sticky air, noting that the temperature was a little too high. This was from the cooling dens, where treated metals would be submerged into water after their final stages of shaping. Next, they would be shipped to different buyers, such as weapon smiths, shipyards, building contractors, or even railway stations, to be assembled as desired.

Stepping from the elevator, Meta Knight shook the light coat of dust from his shoulders. The 'office' part of the forge fell off into long, winding hallways, the black walls of which collected fat dewdrops. All doors he passed were shut, and most of the lights were off.

Architects strategically placed the cooling dens by the 'desks' to act as a cheap air conditioning for the white-collar workers (as Dedede was too cheap to provide for an actual air ventilation system).

He turned a corner, entering a reception area, where he found one, lone worker; an unsuspecting Cappy banging on a fax machine.

"How long has it been since an inspector's been here?" Meta Knight asked as he looked at the dark stains spotting the walls.

"The hell should I know?" The female Cappy muttered without turning around.

"There seems to be extensive water damage, and signs of mold. It has worsened since my last visit."

At this, the Cappy froze. She swallowed harshly before turning around, her face beet red and glistening, not just from the heat.

"Sir Meta Knight! I had no idea it was you-"

"What's your name?" He interrupted while wiping some condensation from his gloves without looking up to the Cappy.

"Uh, Penny." She squeaked. "Ahem, uh sir." She added after a small pause.

"Position?"

"I'm a bookkeeper."

"As a bookkeeper, can you tell me when was the last time an inspector has been through here?"

"Um, uh, well not right away, sir, I'd have to look through-"

"Too long, obviously. Carry on." He interrupted once more, annoyed more than angry. He left the Cappy shaking in her boots as he took off down the hall.

The office complex led to a series of pressurized rooms, small, dark, and hot. It was a dry heat, completely devoid of any moisture from the cooling dens. It immediately met Meta Knight's skin with a caustic hiss. The remaining dew dripping from his mask was eaten away immediately. The temperatures reached around 50 degrees Celsius, on a good day. Most ironworkers were Burning Leos or other fire retardant species, those that weren't, i.e. Meta Knight, needed a heat suit in order to enter the actual furnace room. He opted for a thick canvas like lab coat, which fit awkwardly over his cape and shoulder plates, and stepped inside.

The furnace itself wasn't a furnace at all; the forge was built into Mount Dedede, utilizing the inactive volcanic chambers as factory space, and the magma reserve as a heat source.

Giant, iron cogs hung hundreds of feet above Meta Knight's head, clanking and grinding like arthritic joints. Meta Knight frowned; first the cooling dens were too hot, then the offices were empty. He ground his teeth in irritation as he passed by oblivious ironworkers.

Chains fell from the endless ceilings, holding blacksmithing tools like sledgehammers, wire cutters, welding torches and masks, and some indefinable to Meta Knight, only assumable as torture devices. Immense pipes bellowed lofts of steam and acidic smoke into the air, looking like sooty stalactites in a fire filled cave.

Beneath the sounds gears and hammers and cursing and crackling fire, Meta Knight heard the distinct wail of a gramophone. He tuned out all other noises, honing in on a certain high-pitched twang. He followed, turning past fire pits and metal ovens, winding in and out of caged off rooms, never quickening nor slowing his pace, until finally he reached in the hottest part of the forge; the 'glory hole'.

Quietly slipping through the gates, Meta Knight entered, the room a glow with lava.

Raw ore was not only mined from Mount Dedede, it was hand smelted in the volatile, molten underground, and treated in the pools of natural sulfuric acid that collected around the magma. Small, rock pillars were cut down and used as work tables; hooks and chains were loosely thrown over walls, or even carved out from them, to house the blacksmithing tools. It was cheap, convenient; Dedede's idea. As much as Meta Knight hated to admit it, Dedede's stinginess was usually justified, and somewhat clever. Most mistook the penguin king for an idiot, and, most would be right. But Dedede did have a mind for money, and saving it all to himself, even if it meant cutting corners in the biggest weapon factory in the country. Still, Meta Knight had to hand it to him; the usage of Mount Dedede was somewhat ingenious, from the no cost magma-furnace to the cave space, even down to the stone tables and benches.

Music reverberated off the cavern walls, filling the room with a scratchy jazz tune. Meta Knight, silent as a ninja, marched up to the machine and gave the gramophone a swift punch.

"GAH!" both workers screamed, the sudden lack of sound startling them. The Poppy Bro. ducked his head, while the other worker, a Burning Leo, turned around, outraged at the blaspheme.

Handel was known for having a short and fiery temper. Even the mane of flames atop his head seemed to burn a touch brighter than others. His russet skin always seemed aglow with what some of the other forge men deemed 'piss and vinegar'.

Upon identifying the heretic as Meta Knight, all traces of anger melted from the Leo's face, morphing into a sheepish grin as he tossed his hammer aside and saluted his superior.

"Sir Meta Knight! What a surprise! I had no idea you'd be down here today." Handel said with a fake smile. Meta Knight, still quiet, folded his hands behind his back and waltzed past the iron smelter, who, given the privacy, cast an agitated look toward the Poppy Bro. to his left. The Poppy simply shrugged.

"That is no excuse to be exhibiting such careless behavior."

Handel flinched at his words. Looking back to his gramophone, he eyed the handful of firecrackers sitting against it, as well as the box pastries beneath them. He wasn't sure if Meta Knight had noticed those yet.

"Best not to bring attention to them." The Poppy Bro. mouthed, shaking his head with a gravity fit for a funeral while Meta Knight was still turned.

"Have you filled the quota for today?"

"Um, we're working on it. We were kind of-"

"How many more?"

"About seventy, sir." The Poppy Bro., who had sat quietly up until this point, stood up and walked over to Meta Knight, handing him a dirty clipboard in the process.

"Reason for delay, Carter?"

"Two workers didn't show up today. They hadn't called in sick, so we weren't prepared for their absence." Carter watched Meta Knight's eyes carefully, looking for any sign of annoyance. It was a hard thing to do, considering the only true indicator of Meta Knight's mood were his eyes, and he rarely let any emotion seep through the mask he wore.

"Only two? That put you seventy counts behind?"

"Well, they were the oil lackeys. We only have a handful of them. That's why the gears are so creaky today. It's hurt us pretty bad, having to work with machines that keep breaking down and over heating," Carter said, giving Handel a weary glance as Meta Knight turned his back to them. Much to Handel's utter horror, Meta Knight walked straight over to his gramophone, lifting the record from beneath its needle.

"The office seems to have shut down early, any reason for that? And what about the cooling den? Why is it so hot in there? It should be at least four degrees in there. Does it have to do with the slow production? Could it have anything to do with the complete disregard for rules displayed amongst the workers? Worker's I've put you in charge of? I've counted two-dozen violations since I walked into the lobby, and at least half of them safety violations. Not to mention," Meta Knight paused, sending Handel and Carter's blood cold as his words (or rather, lack) cut through the air like a knife, "these."

He kicked the firecrackers from their hiding spot, sending them dangerously close to the pool of bubbling lava not ten feet away,

Handel and Carter both yelped, making a dive for the bag of explosives.

They both fell short, landing flat on their faces in rather humiliating poses.

Meta Knight casually stood over them, holding the burlap sack in one hand, and the clipboard in the other.

"How does he do that?" Carter whispered to an equally baffled Handel.

"Accidents happen. Your job is prevent them. Imagine these," he gave the sack a good shake, for emphasis, "going off in a pressurized, enclosed cavern full of sulfur, sulfur dioxide, and gunpowder. I do believe that constitutes as an accident." Meta Knight bent over and carefully picked up the box of baked goods. Handel looked bound for a heart attack. "I didn't place in a position of authority because I thought you were childish. Please, prove me wrong."

Handel and Carter rose from the ground, both looking as if though they had spilt milk.

His cold, glassy stare was relentless; Handel visibly shrunk beneath it. Carter, a bit more bold, simply returned the stare. Not rebellious or questioning, but confident in its guilt.

"I expect you to stay here late tonight. Double the order. I don't care how long it takes."

Handel's jaw dropped.

"Double the order!? Double!?"

"Yes." Meta Knight said. Curt and quiet, like always.

"Do you have any idea how pissed the other guys will be? What's one lousy day gonna do to our monthly quota? We've already got all the blacksmiths and forgers working overtime on the weekends; the cooling den operators have clocked in triple the amount we can afford to pay them, and for what?" The Leo's voice boomed against the cave walls, echoing throughout the Glory Hole.

Carter backed up, sensing where Handel's rant was going. Meta Knight, on the other hand, seemed almost amused. His eyes flashed pink for a second, and, if Carter didn't know any better, he would have said the knight had an eyebrow quirked.

_"Why are building all these weapons? I know damn well that Queen Amelia plans to stay neutral. Her decision is as good as Dedede's at this point. Why the hell are we making all these weapons if we've got no fucking army to give them to!?"_ Handel panted and lowered his fists, exhausted from his blind fury.

He quickly recovered once he realized whom he had just yelled at.

Meta Knight remained silent and switched his attention back to Carter, who no longer looked relaxed.

"The reasoning behind my orders are classified. All you need to know is that you are to follow them, to a tee. Now, could one of you please explain the reasoning behind your blatant stupidity and carelessness?"

"We, uh, yeah...the fire works, well..." Handel stumbled over his words, unable to really make an excuse on the spot, and still blushing from his little outburst. Carter, on the other hand, took a cool minute to assess the situation. He eyed the sack, Meta Knight, the lava, and then his bumbling friend.

Finally, he spoke.

"Sir Meta Knight, we bought those fireworks yesterday for the union barbeque this coming Saturday. We were planning to store them in the reception area's lock box so the office could grab them, but forgot. It's no excuse, but-"

"You're fired."

Carter froze mid sentence, a finger poised for explanation hanging before the stone cold knight. The Poppy slowly closed his gaping mouth, before realization spread across his face. He was angry.

"Wait a fucking second, now, you can't fire me, and, and, over fireworks!? I mean really!? Doesn't that seem a bit excessive-"

"You are to collect your belongings and vacate the premise before Handel's shift ends today."

This time, Handel stepped up, "Wait, my shift? I'm not fired?" Carter shot his 'friend' an icy glare.

"No, but you are still expected to pick up the slack and get those seventy orders in before tomorrow."

"Hang on, hang on!" Carter yelled, waving his arms about, "We still haven't reviewed the facts; you can't fire me!"

"As head of Dreamland's Department of Labor and Workforce, I can. King Dedede has made explicit requests for a certain number of weapons and parts to be made in preparation for a possible conflict with the Holy Nightmare Empire, and he has put me in charge of the project. That means I reserve the right to hire, reassign, or fire any and all workers under the jurisdiction of Dreamland 's government, meaning," Meta paused, taking a breath for emphasis, "you."

Carter stared. He blinked. He stared some more.

Handel couldn't decide whom to stare at, as his head kept twitching from one to the other. He decided to mediate.

"Um, well, Meta- I mean Sir Meta Knight, you see, we both bought the bag. Actually, technically, I bought it. And, we both forgot to put it in the lockbox. So really, it's both of our faults, not just Carter's."

Meta Knight, ever so slowly, turned to face Handel, who was beginning to regret his decision.

"Get to work." No more needed to be said, and so Handel hurried off back to his duties. Carter just stayed put, still in shock. He looked to Meta Knight, eyes pleading and pathetically hopeful, a stark contrast to his usual jaded, half lidded stare.

"Gather your belongings and leave. You can return for your pay at the end of the month," Carter raised a hand and opened his mouth to protest, "your missed days will be docked accordingly. Good day, Carter."

And with that, Meta Knight made a sharp turn on his heels, and left the Glory Hole. Carter remained rooted to where he stood, starring after the puffball with a contorted look of anger.

After a good while, he spun around to face Handel, who had his back turned and was seemingly, and suddenly, quite absorbed in his work.

"What the hell, man?" Carter stared. "What the hell?"

Acting surprised, Handel looked up at Carter.

"What?"

"What!? Are you kidding me! He just fired me over a bag of cherry bombs!"

"What man, what? I mean," giving a humorless chuckle, Handel tossed his hammer aside and fully faced the Poppy, "what are you so mad at me for? What did you expect me to do? Cuss out Meta Knight? Get fired too? I was already in hot water for yelling at him!"

"No but you could've at least backed me up! You don't have a problem bitching about filling a double order, but you can't even stand up for me? Who bought those stupid fireworks in the first place!? Huh?" Carter took a step towards the Leo, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Whose money did you 'borrow' for them, Handel?" His tone lowered to a dull and subtle drum; it was a brand of anger entirely unique to Carter. "And who vouched for us just now when _you_ couldn't come up with an answer as to why we had them here with us in the first place!? I just pulled that out of my ass, man!"

Handel stared at his friend, a look of pure guilt taking over the Leo's normally taut features. Carter's anger had relented to a mournful countenance upon his stoic face, something that tugged at Handel more than he would have liked to admit.

"I mean...I didn't see any point in us both being fired." was the only honest answer he could produce. This, of course, only stoked Carter's indignation further.

"Great. Well, that's just fine. Have fun filling up a double order all by your self." Carter grabbed his belongings and headed for the exit. He paused only to glance back at Handel, "You know I would've walked out if our positions had been switched."

"Aw come on Car! I didn't mean it like that! It's just," he hesitated; lying was not his forte. Handel was known for being rather callous, but in reality he was just extremely honest. He meant what he had said. It was the truth. What more was there? But, he had a heart, and Carter had been his best friend since he could remember. He even nabbed the Poppy the job as his assistant in the first place.

"I mean…" his hesitant pause grew into an awkward silence as Handel wrung his hands together. Carter was smart, and would likely see through any excuse. Handel winced as he fumbled for words, he felt genuinely sorry for not helping his long time friend, but he knew plain well why Meta Knight had fired him, "well, Meta Knight's not been in the best of moods what with our budget being cut and the layoffs, and upped orders, and, and I really was just planning to tell him the truth." As Carter opened his mouth to rebut, with a barrage of insults and curse words most likely, Handel held a hand up, shutting his eyes in irritation, "I know, you were just trying to save our asses. My ass. And I appreciate that bud, but you haven't known Meta as long as I have. That guy is...he's, he just knows things. He's probably the freakiest dude I've ever met, and he sees through people, you know?"

Carter raised an eyebrow, slinging his pack to his other shoulder so he could better cross his arms. Handel rubbed the back of his head. As well as being a bad liar, he lacked the vocabulary of an education, and often and trouble expressing himself.

"So you're insinuating he fired me because he knew I was lying?"

"Yeah, sort of. Really, he just hates excuses, even if their true. That's how I got this job in the first place." Handel explained. "He knows my dad pretty well; they were friends back when he served in the GSA. I think Meta was his platoon leader or something like that. An officer, commander, hell I don't know the difference. Around the time my old man got sent home cause of his knee injury, Meta Knight sort of went AWOL or something, I don't really know the details, but anyways, a little while after dad came home, he saw Meta. They met up and rehashed I guess, and Meta was working under Dedede as some sort of steward. Around the time I was seven, he got my dad his job here."

"You essentially got in through the 'good old boy system'." It was more statement than question.

Handel shook his head.

"No, I didn't even want this job up until I actually started working here. It came as a complete surprise, remember? Meta Knight came to visit my dad at the office one day, and I just so happened to be with him. I never really met him before then, except as a little kid, and so I had no idea who he was."

Handel moved over to his workbench and took a seat. He motioned Carter over, pulling a silver, stylized cigarette case and lighter out from his work hat. He held them out, like treats beckoning a dog.

"Luce?"

Carter curled his lip at the ruse, but bit anyways. He sat, plucking a ripe rolled cylinder, squeezing the familiar plush give of filter in between his gloved fingers. Handel lit his own, then his Carters, and the two sat in silence for a bit, puffing away at new smoke.

"Like you were saying?" Carter asked from his seat, head lolled lazily in his hands.

"Huh?" Handel looked up from playing with his lighter. It wasn't so much that he forgot his story, rather, he lost himself in his thoughts.

"Meta Knight. Right."

"And how you got the job in the first place? I had always wondered about that. You've never seemed very keen on government jobs."

"Yeah, and I wasn't. I'm still not. But, I just happened to go with dad to work that day. It wasn't even 'work' work, he just stopped by the office to drop off a file or something. We were gonna go fishing, and he was taking way too long goofing off, so I got pissy and probably said some smart ass thing or another. Meta Knight was there, he was watching us. It kinda creeped me out, how quiet and all like he was, just standing there, staring and listening; he never said a word. Hell, I think he thought it was funny, me and dad fighting. You know we are."

"Yeah? So what's that have to do with you becoming the foreman?"

"Well, I was pissy, like I said, and Meta Knight staring at me wasn't really helping. So I told him off. My dad flipped shit, especially when we got home. Like Meta Knight was some legend or army hero-"

"But he is-"

"I know that, but back then, I didn't." Handel paused, giving Carter a stern look of consequence before continuing. "Anyways, a couple days later, I went back to work with him and Meta Knight was there. My dad made me go and apologize." Handel paused once more, eyeing his lighter as he flipped the cap on and off. Carter waited, expectantly raising his eyebrows.

"Well? Did you?"

"Yeah, sorta." Carter snorted. "Okay. No, I didn't. But I explained why I didn't see fit to apologize, and why I got annoyed in the first place. Meta Knight just walked away, but his eyes were pink. I wont forget that."

"What's that even supposed to mean?"

"Pink? I dunno, but over the years, I learned it's a good thing. It's like his version of laughing I guess. I dunno, the guy never laughs anyways…any who, a few days later I wake up to a hard hat being thrown at my face. My dad tells me to strap up, and that was my first day of work here. The more I met with Meta Knight, the faster I got promoted, and soon I became foreman of the forge. That was around when I got you your job, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah." Carter twirled his cigarette between his fingers wistfully, looking into blank space as he allowed himself to become a bit nostalgic. His trip down memory lane came to an abrupt halt as he registered Handel's words. "So I was right."

"Huh?" Handel quirked his head, confused by his friend's remark. "Whaddya mean?"

"You landed this job, along with all of your promotions and raises, because of Meta Knight being a family friend."

"No, no believe me, Meta doesn't work that way. I don't think he even likes me that much. There's plenty of people that would and probably should be here instead of me if he operated on a friend basis. See, I think Meta Knight is actually pretty simple. So simple he's confusing. He doesn't like bull. He sees right through it. He likes people who are straight to the point and honest, even if they're stupid or irritating, just cause. He gave me the job in the first place, so he wouldn't fire me over back talking him or lying about workers slacking off. It'd be over something that seems stupid, like giving him a reasonable excuse. The guy's known for pulling shit like this." Handel explained, taking a moment to smoke more. After a long drag, he continued.

"I think it's the same reason he sent Kirby to us. He trusts my dad and me-"

"HA! He trusts you guys with kids?" Carter let out a cackle, giving Handel a shit-eating grin. Handel remained serious, however, almost as if he was considering what he was saying for the first time.

"No, no, he trusts us not to tell people things, to do what he says."

"What things? Has he asked you to keep secrets? About Kirby?" At this, Handel grimaced, realizing his slip of tongue. This only intrigued Carter further. "Come on! Tell me!" he begged.

Handel rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with Carter.

"It's nothing, really."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Then why'd you bring it up?"

Handel gave an aggravated grunt before tossing his cigarette aside. He turned to Carter with a look of upmost seriousness.

"Look, it's nothing, really. So don't ask me about it, and don't interrupt. Now where was I?" Carter stared at Handel with skepticism, and a bit of resentment. He always told Handel everything. He hesitated in answering, but decided he'd find out sooner or later now that he knew, anyways.

"You were saying how Meta trusts Danny and you."

"Yeah, cause we're the same. He knew my dad since he was just a scrawny little recruit; he trained him. I wouldn't know, but I'm guessing you bond with people when you go through that type of stuff. Either way they hit it off. After he disappeared from the GSA, my dad met up with him here by coincidence. He saw him at Castle Dedede, and they continued where they left off. He didn't rat on him or nothing. They were friends again, just like old times. My dad never really tells me much about him either, and I ask all the time. He can trust my dad to obey orders, you know? And I think he might see the same thing with me. So, he asked us to take Kirby in, since he couldn't stay with the Ebraums or Meta."

"Why?"

"Aw, I dunno, just some stuff about Dedede hating him. Haven't got a clue why, the kid's adorable. My point is though, he just asks my dad to take in some weird kid, who can't even talk yet, and he's cool with it."

Carter nodded, chewing over Handel's words and his own cigarette, a bad habit of his.

"You still pissed at me?" Handel asked.

"I mean, a little. I get that Meta Knight knows you, but if he knows you that well, then you really think he'd fire you for helping me out?"

"I don't know him," Handel was quick to correct, stressing each syllable with a hand motion, "he knows me, but I don't know him. I just sorta know about him."

Carter nodded in understanding.

Looking around, Handel pulled Carter a little closer to earshot. "You ever hear some of the rumors going around here?" he asked in a low voice.

"Not too many." Carter admitted.

"Ask around. I've heard some crazy stuff, and based off what I've heard from my dad, other foregemen, and what I've seen of him myself, yeah; I know he'd fire me. And he knows I know, you know?"

Carter quirked a brow.

"I guess. I really rely on this job though."

"Maybe I can help you land something down at the docks? I know a few guys." Handel offered.

"Yeah, I might take you up on that." Carter shook his head as he spoke, still in disbelief. "He fired me for being a sycophant." he murmured thoughtfully. Handel cocked his head in confusion.

"Huh?"

"I was being a kiss ass while attempting to save us a violation." e repeated the reasoning, lowering his head onto the table.

"I guess. I know it seems dumb, but that's all I can figure."

"Well it's a load of bullshit." The Poppy mumbled. Handel gave a solicitous look towards him. "Well, what's done is done. And from the way you tell it, it sounds as if it was unavoidable." He stood from the stool, smothering his cigarette into ashes and tossing it into a stray puddle of acid.

"Why don't you stay a bit buddy? Till my lunch break, and I'll give you a ride home."

Carter looked thoughtful for a moment, before shaking his head.

"Eh, I don't really wanna go home. Not now. Besides, you sure Meta wants you taking a lunch break? I mean can you afford it, what with the new order?"

"I dunno. I mean we probably shouldn't have been smoking in here, but at this point what the hell? If I'm going to stay here till three in the morning, might as well enjoy it, right?"

"Is Danny going to be mad?" Carter asked, once again gathering his belongings. The Leo paused a moment to think, picturing his father at home, alone, waiting at the dinner table with fork and knife in hand and a hard scowl set and growing on his face, Kirby running circles around him chanting 'Poya! Suika!'

"Probably. But he'll understand." After a moments thought, he added "Hey, now that you mention it, you wouldn't mind stopping by my place and letting him know I'll be home late? He and Kirby can grab a bite at Kawasaki's."

"Yeah, no problem."

From the high above, cloaked in the grotesque, red shadows casted of firelight and cavern formations, Meta Knight watched, the only indicator of his presence his glowing, yellow eyes. Carter and Handel too busy to take notice of anyone watching them, failed to catch the murky green orbs that followed them from beneath the darkness. He remained silent as the two finished up and as Carter left. Handel walked towards his gramophone, but halted before putting his jazz records back on. He seemed to think better and turned back to his workbench, putting on a welding helmet and picking up his hammer.

Meta Knight's eyes churned pink once more as he watched the black smith beat away at a luminescent hunk of ore. He turned from the guardrail, taking a step back further into the respite of darkness, towards a dark door hidden in between two rocky pillars, one nobody had ever noticed before. Beneath the shade of blackness stood Meta Knight's personal office. A rickety case of wooden planks acted as a staircase leading to the passage, one that would ward off any curious enough to have found them in the first place.

Once inside, Meta Knight placed the confiscated box of pastries (now nearly empty save a few crumbs) on top of a filing cabinet and neared a small auburn desk, crafted from Sandalwood only native to that region of Popstar. It was taken from his old office at the GSA, the only shard of a former life he was able to steal away. Arthur had sent it once he learned of Meta Knight's whereabouts, as a passive aggressive severance package of sorts.

It was unfitting for his office, which really wasn't an office at all. It was a small, cramped, and dusty (seeing as he rarely visited it) cavern, nooked into the side of the Glory Hole and sealed off by a door.

The primary reason Meta Knight chose the space was for the view, however.

In the far left corner lay a large hole, shaped conveniently so as to act like a viewing hole. It provided a humble view of the forge; fire painted cogs of impossible sizes and a maze of cast iron pipes, rust ridden grates and greasy chains, as well as the occasional plumbers crack of a worker passing by.

Since the Glory Hole was located near the bottom of Mount Dedede, the view looked up, which was perfectly suitable for Meta Knight. What he wanted in personal space wasn't so much a place to file papers or sign permits, he wanted a roost, one that allowed for a private and watchful view of all workers, and moreover, a place to think.

He pulled a greasy looking manila folder from his desk, filled to bursting with crumpled, yellowed papers.

Meta Knight pulled a bundle out and began scratching notes down. He wasn't fond of overseeing the forge, but it was a cont position for him in the current situation.

Dedede hadn't upped any orders. He hadn't made orders in the first place.

His knowledge of went on in the forge, or any of his factories for that matter, was limited to how much money the made and how much they spent.

That silly reason alone was why the budget had been cut. Meta Knight sighed as he rubbed a gloved hand over his mask. He had been too enthusiastic about Katsu's plan, and carelessly raised the quota for weapon output, all over the country upon hearing that they were behind schedule. When Dedede saw the margin between input and income, he ordered massive layoffs.

Now, Meta Knight had to work with half the amount of workers he had before, and three times as fast.

It would be much easier to prepare for NME if Dedede would acknowledge the threat, but the penguin king was utterly oblivious to anything that wasn't bathed in gravy.

Meta Knight grabbed an abacus from his desk and slid the beads around, calculating the amount of time he would need to finish the forge's last order.

According to Katsu, who had been working in secret with Meta Knight for a little over a decade in hoarding weapons and ammo, by the end of the quarter, the federal factories _should_ have manufactured enough weapons to supply not only the remnants of the GSA (if an alliance was formed), but Popstar's own, dormant army.

Everything had been going as planned up until a year ago, when Dedede began looking into the matter. His chamberlain, Escargon, brought the king's attention to the massive amounts of money being pumped into forges, and the small amount of revenue coming out.

"He wouldn't have noticed had I not been so foolish." Meta Knight mumbled aloud.

He explained the situation to the king, passing the costs off as a necessity for the nation to grow. Katsu had forged the order forms, signed by Dedede himself, to read as railroad tracks and train parts, rather than weapons and tanks.

Unconvinced, Dedede demanded that production stop. Meta Knight had no other choice but to tap into other funds for the forges to work on.

His own personal funds, Katsu's, and Danegeld taxes reserved for emergency situations. If Dedede somehow discovered his Danegeld run dry, then Meta Knight and Katsu would be in serious trouble.

Luckily for them, Dedede had no idea.

But, unfortunately for them, they had run out of money.

The forge was running on empty, and Katsu's calculations seemed to be off.

There weren't enough weapons.

Meta Knight frowned beneath his mask. The only solution would be to convince Dedede to allow the factories to manufacture war machines.

Looking up to an analog calendar, Meta Knight could only hope that Katsu would be able to convince the Royal Court to prepare for the inevitable.

War.


End file.
